


Voltron Prompts

by mattysones



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-10-06 14:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17346788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattysones/pseuds/mattysones
Summary: Some drabbles and things that I started and liked but can't quite bring myself to continue.





	1. Morning cuddles/fluff

Lance woke slowly, consciousness nudging gently into the corners of his eyes. The chill of the morning was apparent outside of his bed and he tucked in closer, burrowing protectively into his sheets. He snuffled at his pillow that smelled faintly of bleach and ... something else, he couldn't immediately identify. Waking gave him vertigo, he wasn't sure what direction he was facing or where he was, before he squinted open his eyes to find the source of the smell; a person, heady. Warm.

The gentle patter of a running shower reminded him where he was -not on a ship- who was visiting and he smiled, tucking his nose back into his sheets; Keith was still here, in his farmhouse. Safe.

He didn't know when he dozed, but he was shuffled awake by the dip of the bed. He groaned quietly, leaning into the fingers that gently pressed into his bangs and swept them back.

Something to the approximation of "good morning" tried to escape the comforter, but it was muffled and lost. Keith laughed, low, soft and raspy in the morning, "'morning," he said, "I didn't know if you had anything to do in the morning."

Lance groaned and wiggled closer, still wrapped in his blanket burrito, curving himself around Keith's towel-clad side. The answer was; yes, he had things to do. But not while Keith and the others were in town.

He breathed deep, smelling Keith's shower-damp scent. He peeked, greeted by a fond expression, fingers still pulling through his hair. Black strands of hair curled damp on Keith's neck, pale skin glowing in the morning light. He was older, but no less beautiful than ever. Lance smiled sleepily, "They can handle it for a few days," he said.

Keith's eyes brightened, and he tugged on the covers, "Let me in."

Lance was very warm right now, and lifting the covers would make him not-warm.

"Beg me." Lance demanded.

Keith pulled the entire blanket from under him.

Lance squawked, suddenly victim to Keith wrestling himself into the bed. They laughed and pushed at each other until they tangled their limbs and settled. The dog was whining outside the door. Lance was distracted by Keith's hands on his face.

"Good morning," Lance said, pressing his lips plush against Keith's, even while Keith's hands were wandering, "You're up."

"Hmm."

Lance pulled back to study Keith's face. Keith let him, something solemn in his eyes even while they held each other.

Lance's breath caught in his chest. He flopped his head back onto his pillow and closed his eyes, "I'm glad you're here."

Keith paused for just a second, "I am too."

Lance let himself smile.

Lance's dog, Missy, chose that moment to open the door and fling herself at the bed, in all her tiny, white, fluffy glory.


	2. Lance woke in his grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vampire!Lance

Lance McClain wakes in his grave.

He doesn't know it because he's suffocating, his chest hurts. Dirt fills his eyes and mouth and he claws - his hands are pinned at his sides and he can only move his shoulders and fingers. The unforgiving pressure is yielding though because he can move his hands. Inch them up. Between his chest and the dirt. Has to go up. He can't breathe. He's not sure he's digging up but he must be because the ground around him is giving underneath his fingers. He elbows the walls - soft, forgiving - he has to get out. There's rocks between his fingers but he can't see and the walls are collapsing. He can't breathe.

Lance can't sob.

Something gives.

There's air on his hand. Wet. He can feel, but he still can't breathe. His legs are trapped. If only he could push up. He claws and reaches for air.

* * *

He doesn't know how long it takes him to dig himself out. Eventually he finds air and he can think.

He's standing upright.

He's in a grave.

It's dark. It's very dark.

* * *

When he emerges from the ground, he slides because it's mud. The rain is pouring steadily, heavy and warm with summer. Lance looks down at his hands as he crawls from his grave, and they're covered in mud. He's certain he's unrecognizable. He doesn't think about that, because he starts gagging and mud is sloughing from his mouth, pushing from his lungs. It hurts.

He thinks he's dying.

* * *

Lance McClain did die. He doesn't know it because he's scared. His eyes adjust to the night enough to see that the hole he just climbed from looks like someone has been digging around it, creating a ditch almost four-feet deep. Rainwater rushes into the dirt, filling the hole and he watches for a while, before deciding he's actually breathing and actually existing here, in this moment. He doesn't know where he is, just that he's surrounded by trees and nighttime. He thinks that he'd love this kind of rain if he hadn't just emerged from Hell.

He picks himself up and climbs out of the ditch, carefully nudging his feet along the ground, unsure of the terrain. He doesn't notice the beginnings of other holes in the area. He doesn't notice that he's not shivering.

* * *

Amazingly, the sun comes up. The forest is full of thin trees, the underbrush hiding roots, but the ground is otherwise flat. Birds flit from tree to tree like there's nothing amiss, and maybe there isn't. Lance looks down at himself, covered in mud and shambling, and wonders if this is how he's always been. He can't quite remember the events leading to him being buried in the ground. He can remember his family though; he wants to go home.

He takes the opportunity to take a deep breath, the air clean from the rain, and tries to calm himself.

"Well, this sucks." Lance tells the birds, and they don't pay any mind. He keeps his head tilted to the rising sun, sighing when nothing forthcoming happens. He remembers then, to check his pockets.

The only thing left are his house keys, and more mud.

Lance considers his situation; he's stuck in the woods, apparently mugged. He's been missing long enough to be buried alive, so someone probably wants him dead. It's a good bet, except no one seems to be in the area ... except whoever dug the hole. He doesn't seem to be injured.

Also, he's hungry. 

He doesn't remember anything about edible plants from his brief stint in the Boy Scouts, so he's not quite willing to trust himself with wild berries. He could go for a steak right now. Or a hamburger.

Lance tears up when he thinks of his mom. He'd really like to see his mom.

* * *

He walks for a long time, barely feeling his soggy, ruined sneakers. At least twelve hours. The sky rains off and on through the day but the walk itself isn't bad and strangely, he feels a little better, if terribly hungry. It gnaws at his stomach like a living thing; he's never been _starving_ before, and thinks that maybe this is it. So covered in mud, it takes him a while to notice that his wrists are much skinnier than he remembers, though he's always been skinny. After he picks off some caked mud, he realizes that his skin is deathly pale. This scares him because he's never been white in his life.

Was he in the ground so long that he turned white? He doesn't understand.

Nothing makes sense.

* * *

He finds a road.

It's several hours into nighttime, but miraculously a paved road appears. He still doesn't recognize his location but it doesn't take him long to find a sign. He doesn't know the town, but there's a gas station. He stays out of sight of the road in case someone is looking for him. Something in his gut tells him that there is.

Approaching the small town that's going to save his life feels like a beacon. There's a diner with a few cars in the lot, and he can smell hamburgers, but he has no money. He knows he's going to look like a crazy person no matter what, so he enters the gas station, only stumbling a little bit at the sudden florescent lighting. The poor cashier attendant openly gawks at him, and Lance looks for a bathroom without a word.

To say he looks like hell is an understatement. 

He looks exactly like someone who's crawled out of a mudhole and walked for the better part of a day. The bags under his eyes are obscene and gaunt. Lance pulls at his face, trying to recognize himself, but the only thing he recognizes is the color of his own eyes; they remain blue, if a bit clouded over. His skin is indeed, deathly grey and pale, and he looks like he's at least 80 pounds underweight. Somehow he's not surprised. He just wants to get home.

There's grass and twigs stuck in the mud caked to his clothes. The mud has fallen off his exposed skin for the most part, but his hair his caked to his scalp. He shakes the mud out the best he can, and washes his face and hands. He can't do anything about his clothes, unless the cashier wants to take pity on him.

Now that he's here, he can't stop thinking about how hungry he is. When he shuffles out of the bathroom, the gas station looks at him cautiously, like they're not sure Lance is about to rob him. 

Lance tries to smile but he knows it doesn't reach his face, "How far away are we from Chicago?"

The attendant's eyebrows raise, "About a day's drive?"

Lance freezes and glances at a rack of souvineers. Lance's heart drops, "Can I use your phone?'

The attendant lets him, and Lance realizes he can't remember many phone numbers. He hasn't had to memorize numbers since he was a kid; the only one that jumps to mind his is oldest sister's cell phone, which hasn't changed in 10 years. He looks at the clock, and thinks she should be home.

He holds his breath as the phone rings.

It goes to voicemail.

"Veronica," he says, "It's Lance. I'm somewhere in North Dakota. I don't know how I got here. I'll try you later."

He hangs up the phone but can't think of anyone's number he would trust in this situation. Now that he's here he doesn't know what to do. Does he walk home?

"Sir," the attendant presses.

Lance looks up. He's very hungry.

"Do I need to call the police?"

Before he can think about that, the gas station door opens and rings a bell tied to the top of the door. A large man and a short woman walk in. They're both about Lance's age, and seem stressed.

"I'm sure he's still --" the man stops and stares at Lance, "out there."

Lances looks at them. He feels like he should know them, but he doesn't.

The woman, with brown hair and glasses recovers first, "We've been looking all over for you!" She says to Lance and rushes in. Before he can react she has her arm looped in his like a vice grip, "You look horrible. We need to get you cleaned up."

Lance stumbles as she pulls him. He pulls back, panicking, "Who are you?"

The woman smiles with fangs, "You kidder, you. No really, _come back with us._ "

Hell no. Lance snarles and jerks back, "What the _hell_?"

The gas station attendant is fleeing for the backroom. The phone he called on is ringing. The large man's face flashes with panic, "Oh boy."

Before Lance can react, the large man has grabbed him by the arms and is pulling him into the parking lot. The woman goes for his legs, but Lance is tall, and the woman is not, and he gets her in the chin a few times before she's going for something in her pocket.

She pulls out a needle.

He doesn't know what that is but he doesn't like it. Maybe on a better day he could take the man holding him back, but today's he's tired, weak and _hungry_. The woman gets his neck before he can do anything. 

Lance blacks out.

* * *

He comes to briefly, hearing the mumbles of the man. His body is heavy and he thinks he's moving.

_"I hate doing it this way."_

Lance's eyes flutter open, and he catches a glimpse of the man's face. He thinks it's a kind face. His eyes fall closed.

* * *

He has a pounding headache when he wakes. His stomach clenches and something smells _good_ that he can't identify. He shivers, but it's not from cold. With a groan, he rocks his head to the side, feeling his neck pop from whatever position it was in. The distinctive, bleached scent of a hotel room reaches his nose, but it doesn't cover that there's food nearby and Lance _needs_.

His vision focuses and equilibrium returns. He realises he's been tied to a chair. He tests his hands and feet, and feels a tug at his waist. The hotel room curtains are drawn and he's facing the door, back to the sink mirror. Probably as far from the door as they could get him.

"Oh yeah," the man from before's voice says, "He's super feral."

Lance jerks upright and pulls at the rope. He hears a hissing noise. 

"What the fuck," Lance snarls, "is going on? And who the fuck are you?"

Really, this isn't how he anticipated his life going. He was in college, had a girlfriend and good family. He didn't have the best grades but he did alright. He was athletic and pretty-okay in looks. He had a lot going for him. How he ended up kidnapped in a hotel room after clawing himself out of the dirt was beyond him. He didn't understand. He was scared.

The woman edged into his vision, and pulled the last hotel chair so she could sit in his line of vision. Closer, she didn't look older than 19, but had a commanding air around her. The large man was visibly nervous, sitting on the edge of the hotel bed. 

The woman looked Lance in the face, lips turned down, but didn't seem particularly threatening. Lance glared at her.

"There's a lot happening right now," she said, obviously picking her words, "There are more people coming. They want to help you."

She paused, and Lance closed his eyes , praying for patience for himself, and mercy from his captors, "I'm listening."

"We're going to move you somewhere." She hesitated again, "This is going to sound bad, but we don't want cops involved."

Lance felt tears of frustration, and took a breath to keep himself from crying. He was going to die. He opened his eyes when settled himself and looked at the woman, whose face was unsure. "What do you want?" He demanded, "I have nothing to _give_ you. My family is probably looking for me--"

"We don't want anything from you." She said. She looked at the man for help, who seemed just as lost, "We were looking for something, someone, in the woods, and that ended up being you. We don't actually know who you are."

Lance stared at her in disbelief.

"I don't believe you," he said, "what do you _want_?" Lance's voice cracked, "I don't want to die."

The woman's face flickered with pity and he almost spat in her face.

There was a soft knock at the door.

The man jumped up and answered, letting in another man, tall, like Lance, with black hair and a red jacket that Lance immeadiately hated. The new man said something quickly, then looked at Lance, "What's your name?" He demanded.

"Fuck you." Lance said.

"Well, Fuck You, you're coming with us." He strode up to Lance, and the woman stood to get out of the way. He crossed his arms and looked down at Lance, and Lance heard the hissing sound again, "I'm Keith and I'm transporting you. You can either walk, or we'll carry out on the chair. It's up to you."

Lance grit his teeth and looked past the door, at a large, ugly, gray, SUV with tinted windows. If he couldn't fight two of them, he couldn't fight three of them. 

"I'll walk."

Keith nodded and pulled a manual folding knife from his pocket and stepped behind Lance.

"Keith," the woman protested, "I wouldn't, he's feral."

Lance's eyes narrowed.

"He said he'd walk," Keith shrugged, and cut the ropes.

Despite the impulse, Lance didn't fight. He let himself be walked out and pushed the center row of the SUV, with Keith sitting beside him heavily. He couldn't see who was driving. The two from before grabbed some things in under two minutes and hauled into the vehicle with bags. Police lights blinked not too far down the road. Lance looked in the back.

"Don't think about it," Keith said as the doors shut. The SUV started moving before the big guy was done sitting. Lance turned his head and sneered.


	3. Vampires take 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheith fucking, I really want to write a vampire fic but just can't quite get it started

Their hideout was a warehouse.

Keith argued that it wasn't a _hideout_ , it was just a conveniently place reconvene after missions, that weren't _missions_ , okay, they were acts of charity, and Pidge and Keith happened to get their information from higher, confidential sources. Lance argued that bringing in a couch and bits and pieces of _furniture_ made it a hideout, or at least a base, because now there was a human element. Keith felt the warehouse was fairly neutral territory, which they could abandon if needed. They all had their homes, after all. Except, Shiro commented that the warehouse felt most like a home, to him. Keith dropped the argument after that.

"Keiiiith," Lance whined, flopping over the musty couch that Keith sat on, "I'm _hungry_."

Keith continued making notes on his latest intel from Kolivan, leaning over the coffee table.

" _Keith._ "

Keith grunted, "Go eat, then."

"I _can't._ " To be fair, Lance didn't complain like this often. He'd only been a vampire a few years and considering, was dealing with the change spectacularly. He still had his family. He wasn't old enough for his unchanging face to be unsettling. Less related to being a vampire and more related to just being Lance, sometimes he got into _moods_ and Keith found him unbearable when he did. 

"Let me chomp on you."

"No." Keith's nose wrinkled at the thought, tapping his pen against his paper, having lost his train of thought related to work, "Weren't you just bragging about your latest girlfriend?"

When no response was forthcoming, Keith looked over and Lance was, for lack of a better word, melting into a sulk puddle on the couch. His lower lip jutted out when he noticed Keith looking at him. He averted his eyes, "She didn't like how I fed on her," he mumbled, "said it didn't feel good."

Keith's eyebrows knitted. That made sense, it didn't feel good to everyone. And sometimes if you weren't feeling up to, you know, being fed on, it was hard to let whatever weird chemical thing that happened take over.

Lance was moping, "Am I a bad vampire?"

And wasn't that a question? Keith sure didn't feel like answering it, and set his pen down with an irritated push of his fingers, "Lance..."

" _Keith,_ " Lance rolled over on the couch, in an impressive display of limberness that still conveyed how pathetic he felt, to sit upright next to Keith, "How can I know if I'm missing some core, vamp-y trait if I don't get proper _feed_ back?"

Keith didn't have to look to know he was being finger-gunned at. He rubbed his eyes, "That's not what vamp means, and _no_."

"I know," Lance beamed, "I just like saying it."

Without a sound in the echo-prone warehouse, Shiro appeared from ... somewhere. Around the corner, from doing whatever Shiro the Vampire Things he got up to. Keith could assume Shiro came from somewhere in the surrounding forest. Questioning led to Shiro giving vague answers, and trying to discover what he was _doing_ led to vaguer answers.

 _"No,_ Lance," Shiro said like he'd been privy to the entire conversation. Keith looked up at him and smiled. Shiro smiled back and held out his hand for Keith, "I'll get Hunk to get more donor bags for you. Stop hitting on my boyfriend or I might get jealous."  
Lance wasn't dissuaded, and grinned at him, "Of course I would never, Captain Shirogane of the S. S. Keith's Ass," he said, "if I stood a chance I'd be too intimidated to really try."

Keith rolled his eyes because he doubted that, but he grabbed Shiro's hand and let himself be dragged from his work, "We've got a new target," he said before Shiro could distract him.

"Grab your stuff, I need to talk to you," Shiro's eyes flickered to Lance, who's shoulders fell in disappointment at not being included.

"Pidge isn't here yet," Lance protested quietly.

"We'll be back," Shiro said, and squeezed Keith's hand. 

Keith's stomach fluttered.

* * *

Shiro had a habit of taking Keith apart. He could tap his fingers in Keith's palms and Keith collapsed. Slide a hand up his arm and Keith dissipated. Take his lip between his teeth and Keith was useless. Mouth his way from the back of his ear and down his neck, and Keith's soul ejected from his body to leave him little more than a mass of nerves. 

Keith let Shiro feed from him, the only one, because Keith was addicted to being fed from in the most literal sense. These days he was mostly addicted to Shiro. Shiro could ask Keith to rip his heart out and an present it on a platter and Keith would do it.

It was inconvenient in the car when Keith noticed Shiro was hungry - could feel the pull in his veins. It sent his spine rigid, body reacting to what was probably subconscious to Shiro, but Keith was already feeling his gut run hot.

"What's going on?" Keith asked as he buckled himself in, "You're distracted."

Shiro climbed into the driver's seat, eyes not meeting Keith's and movements a little too jerky on the car. He was irritated, "I found a lead on Lance's sire," he said, "you're not going to like it."

Keith frowned as Shiro pulled away from the warehouse, "Does it have anything to do with Kolivan's target?" Kolivan and Shiro's leads tended to cross so it wasn't an unreasonable question, though the Blade wasn't interested in Lance in the least.  
Shiro raised an eyebrow, eyes on the road. The area was wooded, the warehouse in an area that had begun being industrialized, but failed. "I don't know, does it?"

Which was an asshole response because Keith couldn't know for sure. His eyes narrowed and he took in Shiro's frame, gauging how much he was going to humor when Shiro was feeling particularly ornery, "Where are we going?"

"My apartment," Shiro told the windshield.

Cute. "Are we gonna fuck?"

Shiro barked out a laugh, his jawline moving with the motion, and Keith was briefly distracted from being annoyed, "Why? You want to?"

"You're hungry," Keith said simply. He shuffled in his seat and turned his head to the window to watch the trees. His own reflection looked back at him, "And when you're hungry, you fuck."

"I could just eat," Shiro said unconvincingly. Not because Shiro didn't believe what he was saying, but because Keith _knew_.

He rubbed his fingers together and felt the pulse in his thumb, glancing pointedly at Shiro, whose gaze was already being pulled from the road. Keith wouldn't call himself coy in any sense, but sometimes he had to fuck with the man.

Shiro's breath sucked in, "I might be hungry."

Mmmhmm. Keith tried not to be smug. He rubbed his fingers again. "Is that why we're going to your apartment?"

"No," Shiro said, a little more firmly, "I have some evidence, and with Pidge around..."

Ah. Pidge was a snooper. The snoopiest. She could keep a secret, but she also meddled. Keith sighed, "I shouldn't give you a damn drop."

"Why's that?"

Keith scoffed, "You're in a _mood_."

Shiro, for his part, looked contrite, "Sorry."

"Make it up to me later."

* * *

He did, Keith's legs over his arms, cock buried in Keith's body while Keith rasped and tried to breath. Shiro's fangs were sunk inches into his neck, and Keith pulsed, flew, felt every heatbeat in his cock and the way his legs jerked with Shiro's fucking. Shiro could pull him apart and leave him scattered and whipped like a windstorm, and Keith would thank him. He was thanking him now, pulling Shiro's hair with his fingers and rambling nonsense sex talk while Shiro consumed him. 

Keith was one-hundred-percent human.

But never felt more godlike then when Shiro moaned and came in his body, and licked the blood off his chest. His body was his to give. His blood gave life.

Keith loved him.

* * *


End file.
